Moths and the Lights They Die For

The psychic says, “Come here let me tell your fortune 
using only playing cards. Choose a card, any card. 
That’s the two of spades. No I don’t know what it means.”

No, I don’t know what it means. In the nightmare I’m trapped
in an art museum, looking at paintings of landscapes I’ll never
see in person, because they’re either too far away or so far away

they’re unreal. They’re unreal, moths and the lights they die for.
In the nightmare, I’m in heaven, sentenced to silence, watching 
reruns of my life on a big VCR. I’ve got a stomach full of sun,

so all the angels flock to me. Like I look like God. I couldn’t walk
through fire, over water. But once I crossed a pond, with only a
log for a bridge. That’s something.